


What a delight this strangling is!

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Javert's Conflicted Boner, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4546047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is early yet. Valjean wears only his shirt, and in the warm light of this late evening, the white linen turns translucent, and Javert looks at the shape of those strong arms that have carried so many burdens. His mouth is dry. There is only one reason for why they would turn in early enough that there is still light outside, and he knows that soon, his hands will explore with gentleness beneath that shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What a delight this strangling is!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chocobos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/gifts).



> Inspired by discussion on vaincs' tumblr of the strangling quote, thank you to everyone who conspired to make this mental image too tempting to resist.

Javert can hear steps approaching. Valjean is pressed into his side, warm and solid and familiar. It is dark inside the wardrobe into which they have been forced to flee, and Javert listens as the steps come yet closer. Through a small hole he can see the man he has watched all evening – and yes, indeed! There it is, a key in the hand of the thief! Now it will take but moments for the man to approach the Prefect's desk and go for the jewels of Gisquet's wife. Then another case will be closed, and Javert will at last be rid of this long month of spying on servants and washerwomen and porters.

The man halts. Javert's heart beats faster in his chest. Has he made a sound? Has the thief been warned? 

Valjean's breathing seems louder still, and when the thief turns to look into their direction, he quickly slips a hand over Valjean's mouth.

No sound now. That is imperative. They need to entrap him with the jewels on him. As long as he has the proof of his crime in his hands, it will be off to La Force with him. And the thief has wounded a servant last week; it is more than time that someone puts and end to this; it is--

Valjean's mouth is wet and hot beneath his hand, and Javert does not allow himself to look at him again. They must be very quiet, he tells himself even as his heart skips a beat at the thought of kissing those lips -- and then the thief moves on, apparently come to the conclusion that the wardrobe does not hold anything of worth.

Javert keeps his hand clasped over that distracting mouth. It is not done yet. The thief is bending over the desk now, and there, the key is pushed into the lock. 

Javert's lips twist into a small smile, and all the while Valjean's lips burn hot into his palm. But Valjean is still quiet, and Javert watches, waits, every muscle tense in his body as from somewhere within him, the old joy stirs: that glee of knowing the prey entrapped, the hunt coming to its climax at last.

There is a clinking sound – jewelry hastily swept into a pocket, Javert supposes – and then the thief turns and quickly walks out. Javert can see that the drawers are closed once more. Even the lock has been turned again – and there! 

A cry resounds from outside the room. There is the sound of a body pushed into the wall, and then the satisfying iron clink of handcuffs closing around a suspect's wrists.

It is done, Javert thinks, glee coursing hot through his veins. They have entrapped him! His men will send him on to La Force immediately, and now all that is left to do is to join them.

The door of their wardrobe opens when he pushes against it. That is when he becomes aware of it: Valjean, now that Javert's hand has slipped from his mouth at last, is quietly gasping for breath. His cheeks are reddened, his eyes soft and dark and still trained on Javert with a sweet alertness, as though--

As though it was indeed by Javert's grace alone that he was allowed to breathe once more.

With sudden horror Javert feels himself hard in his trousers, his prick straining painfully stiff against the fabric as he looks at the red tinge of Valjean's cheek and the softness of his eyes.

“Valjean, I--”

He wants to apologize, but he cannot find words. The heat and the wetness of Valjean's mouth against his hand are burned into his mind. His prick aches with terrible lust at the thought that Valjean had simply surrendered to such a thing, had given way to Javert's will as though it were nothing, as though it were truly nothing at all to let Javert deny him breath when he...

“Your thief,” Valjean says, his eyes warm with a smile, his cheeks still flushed. “Go. Join your men. Hear how they celebrate.”

Javert does not know what to say. He feels like he should apologize. For the sudden violation – for the thoughtlessness of it. For the way he had nearly harmed the man he loved and cherished like no other, and yet, in that moment of tension, had unthinkingly commanded as though Valjean's body was his to order – 

For the way Javert is hard even now. 

Valjean's gaze drops a little, and the flush on his cheeks deepen at what he finds, but still his eyes are warmed by that small, rare smile. “Go,” he says softly, and Javert watches helplessly how his tongue wets those swollen lips. “Go. I will wait.”

\---

A month has passed since that adventure in the Prefect's study. Valjean has not brought it up again, for which Javert feels a certain embarrassed relief. The memory returns at times: Valjean's mouth hot and wet beneath his palm, the flush of his cheeks, the way he gasped for breath, his eyes dark and soft as he looked at Javert.

Valjean is strong, Javert tells himself at those times when the memory returns with that damning tightening between his legs. Valjean is strong. Valjean could have pulled Javert's hand from his mouth at any time.

But what is more damning, more damning even than that horrifying heat that is kindled at the mere thought, is the fact that it had been simple thoughtlessness. He had clasped his hand over Valjean's mouth and nose and had watched the thief without thinking for even one second about the fact that Valjean could not breathe.

What sort of man does such a thing? One wrapped up in the hunt, Javert tells himself, but this new conscience within him takes his soul between its fangs and laughs with disdain at the notion that Javert could have ever thought to become more than what he was: a man who had no care for the life of another, who could not see Jean Valjean as anything other than a tool to command.

“Javert,” Valjean says, sitting quiet and calm on the bed. 

It is early yet. Valjean wears only his shirt, and in the warm light of this late evening, the white linen turns translucent, and Javert looks at the shape of those strong arms that have carried so many burdens. His mouth is dry. There is only one reason for why they would turn in early enough that there is still light outside, and he knows that soon, his hands will explore with gentleness beneath that shirt.

There is calmness in Valjean's eyes, and a light on his face that rivals that of the setting sun. This is how he looks upon Javert now, and Javert feels the warmth of the man suffuse wherever Valjean's gaze comes to rest.

All he need do is sit down on the bed and cradle his face in his hand to draw those warm lips to his. He knows Valjean will give way to him in this, as he does in so many other things. Javert walked into his life, and Valjean gave way and allowed Javert to fill the space. Javert walked into Valjean's apartment, and Valjean willingly relinquished that space as well. Valjean gave way in _this_ , too, and let Javert lay claim to half of his bed. More: he gives over his mouth for kisses, his arms for embraces.

Should it surprise him that Valjean would give way even in that, that he would let Javert clasp his hand over his mouth and accept it with that same willing calmness with which he had accepted all else Javert dared ask for?

He is not certain what frightens him more, that Valjean will say no one day, or the chance that he never might.

Valjean is still smiling at him, and Javert is as ever helpless to resist. He allows those warmth-filled eyes to draw him forward, and only when he is seated next to Valjean, his hand a hair's breadth away from touching that beloved mouth, he stops with sudden dread.

“Javert,” Valjean says again, and now that rare smile is fading away. Instead, Javert receives a searching look that makes the shame inside him grow.

Does Valjean know what Javert thinks of whenever he looks at him? Did Valjean see the terrible heat that had for a moment struck Javert like lightning when he had gazed with that terrified realization at Valjean's gasping mouth?

Valjean catches Javert's hand that still hangs helplessly in the space between them and deliberately draws it to his lips. The warmth of the kiss runs through Javert like a shock.

“Don't,” Javert finds himself speaking. Valjean's breath is damp against his skin, and Valjean's eyes shine affection at him. Valjean does not release his hand, and Javert has no choice but to watch while that terrible heat within him pools low in his stomach. 

Valjean's mouth nuzzles into his palm. The touch is so tender, so careful, that Javert cannot breathe. Again he remembers Valjean's flushed cheeks in that wardrobe and feels that cruel desire with him rise once more.

How can he even think such a thing? What sort of monster is he that even now his body takes pleasure from the memory? What sort of man looks at a mouth he has kissed countless times and imagines--

The mouth leaves his palm, and Valjean draws his hand to his throat instead.

Javert cannot breathe. His body is locked in shock. The sight horrifies him: his hand, large and cruel like that of a monster, molded to that throat. It makes a hideous picture, a vision of yet another crime of which Javert had observed so many.

And yet, even now, his body stirs at feeling the way Valjean's pulse flutters against his fingers, as though the heart within his chest is still that of a predator.

He raises his eyes to Valjean's face. Words of apology remain heavy and unspoken in his throat while his fingertips tremble against warm skin. Has he ever seen Valjean so vulnerable?

But Valjean's eyes still look at him with love. How can Valjean still trust him?

“Please,” Valjean finally says, and his hand comes to cover Javert's, holding it in place around his throat. Valjean's palm is rough and warm against his skin, and Javert is still horrified, cannot believe that Valjean not only still remembers what Javert did to him in the wardrobe, but would let Javert have such power over him a second time.

“You don't know what you are doing!” Javert's voice is so rough that he has to swallow, the weight of what the touch has pulled up from deep inside him still stuck in his throat.

“I trust you,” Valjean says, inexplicably calm, his eyes clear as he looks at Javert while Javert's hand is curled around his throat. 

How can Valjean even bear it? Javert can feel the thrum of his pulse against his fingers, a frightened flutter – but how strange that there is no fear in Valjean's eyes!

And then Valjean's hand comes to cover his own, and Valjean repeats it, “I trust you,” his voice low and intimate, and it goes straight to Javert's groin. His cock twitches with sudden interest despite the sight that still horrifies him: his fingers around that vulnerable throat. Valjean's eyes are watching him, and Javert feels himself flush, does not know whether he should apologize for his body's reaction or allow this thing to continue.

He does not understand what Valjean is asking of him. How can Valjean trust him when in that wardrobe, Javert proved himself unworthy of that trust?

Valjean's fingers are rough against the back of his hand – and then they tighten around him, so that his hand tightens in turn. Heat blooms between his legs when he realizes what is happening, the full, beautiful horror of it, Valjean offering up his bare throat to him, and more: Valjean offering up his life to him, forcing Javert to accept it.

Valjean's pulse beats fast against his tightened fingers. Valjean's eyes are calm. They still watch him, and for a moment Javert sinks into the dark pool of them, wondering if there at their bottom, the secret is hidden, the answer to this thing that is happening.

Valjean's cheeks flush with color. Javert watches with horrified fascination. Valjean's veins throb against his hand, and he tells himself even now that this is wrong, that he should never be allowed to hold the life of Jean Valjean in his hand. All the while his body pulsates with heat in time to the desperate flutter of Valjean's pulse, a primal, animal drive like a hot spike in his groin. He is achingly hard, and that is perhaps the most important reason for why he should never be allowed to have this power over Valjean.

But Valjean still looks at him with complete trust while his lips part for a breath he cannot take. Javert battles the need to press his other hand to his chest, to feel the frightened pounding of his heart and know that this is something he holds in his hand as well, and that that heart is excited by his possession of it.

How often had he dreamed of it? To apprehend this man? To tighten his hand around his throat, to know him securely pinned, to hold Jean Valjean in his power at last?

Now that it is happening, it is very different to those old dreams of terrible power. Now, Jean Valjean looks at him from eyes full of acceptance, his cheeks flushed the way passion makes them flush when Javert claims his lips with a kiss – only Javert claims no kiss this time, and there is no tenderness in his touch. His hand is too tight for affection. And yet, there is a strange sensuality in such cruel touch too, in feeling the fast throb of Valjean's pulse, the fragility of his bared throat, those lips that part a little and yet cannot breathe in the air he so desperately needs.

Almost, at that thought, Javert releases him in horror – but then Valjean's hand tightens around his own again, holding him in place, and Javert cannot move. All he can do is to look into Valjean's eyes and accept this terrible gift of a trust he is still certain he does not deserve.

Every painful twitch of his swollen cock against his trousers tells him that he cannot be trusted with it.

But Valjean's eyes are still calm and dark, and they watch him. They watch him, and there is no fear in them even as his lips part, even as his cheeks flush, even as his body needs to breathe and cannot, because Javert does not yet grant him air.

What a fool Valjean is to trust him so, Javert thinks in despair as his cock aches with insistent pleasure at the sight of Jean Valjean so completely in his hand. What a fool Valjean is. What a –

How beautiful he is, Javert thinks. He is still gazing into the eyes that are open to him, hiding nothing from him, giving him everything when this man has already placed his very life as a gift into his hand. His lips are red, and even though they gasp helplessly for air now, half an hour ago they kissed him sweetly. A day ago they kissed his prick. Countless times, that mouth opened for him, sucked him with calm pleasure as though there was nothing degrading about the act, as though it was as much pleasure for Valjean as it was for Javert – and now that mouth gasps for air, and certainly, once he lets him breathe again, that mouth will kiss him sweetly in thanks for being allowed to breathe again, and--

Desire and need come crashing over him like waves and he is lost. A part of him is still terrified by the way his body insistently aches, proudly hard at these horrible thoughts, thick with lust while his hand is wrapped tightly around Valjean's throat. But for all that he is horrified, there is also the calmness of Valjean's eyes that still rest on him, so deep and dark, and the strong hand that covers his own. It could rip away his hand in a heartbeat. They both know that Valjean is far stronger. And yet that hand holds his in place instead.

Again Javert feels the quick flutter of Valjean's pulse against his fingers, the heat of his skin, the working of his throat. Valjean seems a terribly fragile construct all of a sudden. How strange that this indefatigable body, this strong soul are tethered to life by such a weak core of vulnerable skin and veins. 

Again Valjean's mouth gapes open for breath. Javert watches in terrible fascination, stirred once more by Valjean's need. It is that most primal need for air, that need to live – and yet, the way it is displayed on Valjean's body is not so different from how Valjean will look in the throes of orgasm.

It is, Javert decides, a damning evidence, that he can watch this struggle and ache with lust. Has Valjean known this about him? Was it a test, perhaps, and not a proof of Valjean's undeserved trust? Has perhaps Javert failed both Valjean and himself by agreeing--

But Valjean's mouth, that mouth that has kissed his hands, his chest, his lips, even his cock, with such devotion, is now helplessly, uselessly gasping for air again. Arousal and fear are a constant buzz in Javert's ears, and at last he cannot take it anymore. He takes his hand away, watches as Valjean's chest expands as the man gulps for air, his body desperate to live even though his eyes are still watching Javert with that same calm, trusting surrender – and then Javert finds his hand there between Valjean's legs instead.

He is not certain if it is a relief to find that Valjean has been roused as much as he is. He is not certain of anything – but Valjean is certain, Valjean's need fills his hand with its heat, and he slowly massages him through his shirt. Javert's fingers glide over the firm bulge while Valjean is still gasping for breath – and then Javert clasps his other hand over Valjean's mouth and nose. How large his hand looks on Valjean's face, he thinks with another instinctive shudder. How very much he seems a beast now, a madman, one of those he hunted who left behind crumpled bodies in dark street corners...

Valjean's eyes pull him away from his train of thought. They still rest on him, hazy and warm with something Javert still cannot believe can be pleasure – but those eyes hold his gaze. They never leave his face. Even now, even as his hand rubs firmly between Valjean's legs, perhaps as much to reassure himself as pleasure Valjean, those eyes watch him and see him, look at him with calm trust although it is Javert who denies him air.

Valjean's mouth is hot and wet under his hand. Javert had allowed him only two desperate gulps for air – Valjean must still be desperate, and still he is obedient under Javert's palm, his shirt damp now where the relentless massage wrings pleasure from him.

Again Javert imagines how he will kiss that mouth later, and then Valjean arches forward a little, his eyes hazy, still trying to hold his gaze even as they loose focus, and Valjean is hard in his hand. The shirt is soaked through there at the tip and Javert grips his prick through the fabric, twists his wrist and rubs the wet shirt over the head as he pulls his hand away from his mouth at last. 

Valjean's prick erupts in his hand as Valjean draws in gasping breath after breath. His cheeks are flushed, his lips very red, his eyes finally fall closed, and Javert watches the heaving of his chest, the thunder of his heartbeat there where his pulse throbs at his throat, and remembers how he placed his hands there and gently squeezed.

The shirt is sodden when Valjean has finished spending himself. Javert draws it off him, and then, for no other reason than he wants to, licks the softening prick clean while Valjean shifts wearily beneath him, making dazed, overwhelmed little sounds. He only draws back when Valjean's hands come to rest on his head and stroke him with a gentleness he even now is not quite certain he deserves.

“Well,” he mutters, suddenly embarrassed as he allows Valjean to draw him back up. Valjean's face is still flushed, and his chest is still heaving, and when Javert follows that sudden urge and rests a hand on his chest, he can feel the frantic beating of his heart. 

“Well! That was...”

He is not quite certain what to say. He thinks he should apologize again, but he does not now how. Now that he is resting against Valjean, Valjean can feel how roused Javert is by what they have done, and he is still lost for words, cannot even find an apology for himself. To do this is one thing – but to feel pleasure at such a horrid transgression?

“I trust you,” Valjean says again, still so calm, and his hand slides into Javert's hair, then down to his throat, resting where Javert can now feel his own pulse beat against Valjean's hand. 

He lowers his head in remorse. Then he catches Valjean's hand and dares to press a kiss to it. He is drawn up for another kiss, and Valjean's mouth is gentle with his, a tongue licking along his lip for traces of Valjean's spend, gentle, grateful as it kisses all traces of Valjean's pleasure from him.

What a miracle this man is. Javert breathes a sigh against his lips, still shivering with uncertain pleasure as he thinks of this mouth gasping hot air against his palm.

“I trust you,” Valjean says again when their lips part, and his eyes are still clear as they gaze at Javert. 

“I trust you. You should trust yourself.”


End file.
